Page 112 of Play Maker

Strong hands grip my shoulders in the softest way, and the heat of his body presses against my back. “Are we still finding things we need to do?”

“Oh please.” I laugh. “You’re far worse than me.” I look over my shoulder. “In a good way.”

He presses his lips to mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe they convinced you to have aMortal Kombattourney the night before we sayI do.”

I hear vehicles pulling up the drive, and he smiles.

“They didn’t, but the girl bosses insisted they needed me to leave.”

He kisses me again, grabs his duffle off the wicker couch, and walks toward his brand-new truck—a diesel, heavy duty because he’s “a farmer now” and needed it.

* * *

I don’t know whose idea it was to call this a “girl boss night,” but between Sydney fussing over me, Riley’s swollen ankles, Izzy’s phone tripod, and Maggie accidentally starting a small fire while trying to make s’mores on the stove, we are nothing short of a disaster with their matching bridesmaid pajamas and my bride-to-be ones.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Riley is horizontal on the couch, wearing a face mask and cradling her belly like it’s a Fabergé egg. “Someone bring me a cookie before I roll off this couch and break my water.”

Sydney snorts. “You’re not due for two more months. And I brought protein cookies.”

Maggie groans from the kitchen. “You brought sadness. These taste like betrayal and cardboard.”

“They have chia,” Syd offers, deadpan.

“Chia can choke,” she grumbles.

“Ladies.” I raise my glass of sparkling apple cider like its champagne. “We’re here to celebrate the final night of me not being a married woman. Let’s keep it classy.”

Izzy immediately hits play on the karaoke machine and starts howling a mashup of Beyoncé and Reba.

So much for classy.

* * *

While Sidney tries to clean up the paint I got on my nails today, Riley insists on giving me a “soothing” scalp massage.

“Are you nervous?” she asks

“No.”

“Excited?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to cry when you sayI do?” she asks, sounding like she may do so now.

“No.”

Sydney smirks. “She’s going to sob. Ugly cry. Full-on mascara streaks down her face. Kolby’s going to lose it. They’ll both cry, and we’ll all pretend we’re not crying while we film the whole thing.”

Izzy chimes in, “I’m posting it with the caption:He tackled her heart.”

“Delete your account,” I say, throwing a pillow at her.

* * *

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